


To Wish Impossible Things

by thatgirljazz



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, for later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirljazz/pseuds/thatgirljazz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1832, Enjolras meets a very clever bar maid, Clara Oswin Oswald, who affects his life much more than he anticipated. Due to his tragic failed revolution, it would seem that their story came to a close, but what happens when Clara Oswald and the Doctor meet Enjolras in 2013 Paris?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> The brainchild of me and Lorri, aaronntviet on tumblr, wouldn't have been able to do it without her. Please, check out our clajolras blog on tumblr for graphics and gifs. Enjoy and leave feedback!

Clara feels the carriage jostle as it makes its way through the crowd. A child swings up to her window. His face is painted with dirt and his eyes are fierce with hunger. She grabs her coin purse and presses a few pieces of metal into his palm. He stares at her only for a moment, before jumping off into the streets. Her body lunges forward as the carriage comes to a sudden halt. She grunts as her hands catch the seat to break her fall.

When it stays still, she pokes her head out of the window. The driver is cursing to himself and Clara's knowledge of French curses are limited. She could hear the crowd roaring two streets back, but now she sees why. She recognizes the house, it's a general's, but she cannot remember his name. There are students passing out pamphlets. One approaches her and thrusts a printed piece of paper in her hand.

"Vive le Revolution!" from the disdainful look in his eye, she is reminded that she is still in her governess attire.

Two voices carry over the sound of the crowd and her large brown eyes dart to the source. There are two students standing in front of this general's home. They are both tall and lean. One has brown hair that sticks up a bit and the other is blond with curls. The blond steps forward and Clara can tell he is the leader. She nods as he says the name of the general, Lamarque. He is the only one who cared about the people, she remembers now.

Her eyes lock onto the blond boy, but she isn't sure if boy is the right word. Yes, he is young, but he does not act it. His blue eyes are ablaze as the sunlight bounces off his golden curls. Clara is reminded of fearsome angels being drawn into battle from sermons she had heard as a girl. His face certainly is angelic. The thought makes her smirk to herself.

Once the blond begins to speak, she sees why the crowd is so affected. His words are eloquent and extremely clever, but it is the way he says them that strikes the heart of the mob. He is full of passion and righteous anger as he damns the aristocracy and the inequality of the government. He plays the crowd like a skilled violinist would his instrument. One of the students whispers to him and she sees his mouth tighten as the annoyance flickers across his face. She hears the sound of iron covered hooves hitting the ground, but he uses it to strengthen the mob's resolve. The soldiers come and the group disbands. Clara has no intention of being arrested for listening, so she jumps back into her carriage. Once it starts moving again, she unbuttons her dress and pulls on the red one she has in her bag. The carriage comes to a much calmer this time and she steps out in front of the Cafe Musain.

"What kept you?" are the first words Uncle John asks when she comes round the back.

"A bunch of students in front of Lamarque's house," she stows her bag under the stairs.

"Then they're getting more of a following," he comments.

"Vive le Revolution," she smirks and hands him the pamphlet.

"How'd you get this?" he looks down at it only for a moment.

"I told you. I was in the crowd," she grabs her grey apron and ties it around her waist.

"I pray Javert did not see you," his brow furrows.

"No one saw me. Except the student who glared at me when he gave me that," she shrugs.

"Why did he glare at you?"

"Nevermind."

"Clara--"

"I got tables. Where's Francoise?"

"She went to market," she can tell she's been gone a while because his eyes shift when he tells her. She knows better than to say anything else.

"Hope she's back soon," she grabs a tray and brushes past him.

\---

Clara wipes the sweat off her brow and begins untying her apron.

"Hold on," Francoise walks into the kitchen. Clara notes the lack of food in her hands for such a long market visit. It's nearly dark. "The students, upstairs, can you get them some drinks before you go?"

"I thought John usually served them. Women aren't allowed upstairs," for some reason that she doesn't understand.

"Just this time, Clara, please," Francoise begs her with her brilliant green eyes and Clara begins to see how her uncle threw away his ambitions for her. She holds her tongue because her sister owns this place.

"Fine," she sighs and trudges up the stairs.

She eyes the group of students. One is asleep on the table with a bottle in his hand. Another is inspecting a cut on his finger rather attentively while his friend claps and laughs. A different pair of students are against the back wall. One is reading a book, he was the one who glared at her. The other is reciting bad poetry. She recognizes the two in front of Lamarque's house. The brown haired boy leans over the table as the blond scribbles furiously on a piece of parchment. She smiles when she realizes none of them noticed her. She puts her hand on her hip.

"All right, boys, what are we drinkin?"

"We've been invaded by a British spy," says the one who was laughing at his bleeding friend.

"And what a beautiful spy," a boy stands up and Clara realizes she didn't see him before.

She raises her eyebrows and puts her hand on his shoulder. "Down, boy. I'm just here to get your drinks."

"Just wine," yawns the one with the bottle in his hand.

She looks over at the boys by the table. "And you two?"

The brown haired boy smiles at her. "Wine is great, thank you."

"How come we've never seen you before?" her admirer rests his arm on her shoulder.

"I work downstairs. Women aren't allowed up here," she doesn't hide the annoyance in her voice.

"Because we don't need the distraction. Courfeyrac sit down. She's not interested," the angel finally speaks.

Clara snorts at the idea of her being a distraction. She rolls her eyes and the brown haired boy notices and laughs. She smiles at him before going back to the stairs. After she passes out the mugs, she looks at the blond. She sets his mug right above his parchment and his shoulders tense.

"Sorry, am I  _distracting_  you?" his blue eyes look up to meet the glare in her brown ones.

He falters and she can tell he isn't used to talking to women which she finds odd since he commands a crowd so well. She sits down on the table and her red dress brushes against his parchment. He takes a slow breath and she smiles.

"Too busy plottin' to find a girl?" she watches his Adam's apple bob nervously. "Shame."

His jaw tightens as Clara winks. She's rather proud of herself. He closes his eyes, but only for a moment.

"'I have much higher ambitions than finding some girl to dote on me," he glares at her.

Clara scoffs. "This girl doesn't need anything from a boy who has his head in the clouds."

She hops off the table and grabs her tray. She starts collecting the empty mugs and turns her back on him.

The sound of his chair scrapes back against the wood as he stands up. "I do not have my head in the clouds. I am trying to build a republic. Change the world. But I wouldn't expect a bourgeois girl like you to understand that."

Clara's hand stills on the handle of the mug. She contemplates throwing it at his head, but only for a second. Instead, her brown eyes lock on him.

"If looks could kill," Courfeyrac mutters.

She marches back over to him and pokes him in the chest. "I am no bourgeois girl. I am a governess." She looks down at the buttons on his vest and how well made they are. Her thumb flicks one back, "You're one to talk. Bloody schoolboy playing revolutionist."

His blue eyes look down at her hand and then back up. He's taken aback for a moment at how close she is, but he is quick on his feet. "No better than a bar maiden playing governess."

Clara's jaw sets and her hand balls up into a fist. Before she can hit him, the brown haired boy steps between him.

"Save your anger for the National Guard, Enjolras." He looks at Clara. "Thank you for the wine, Mademoiselle."

Clara glares at Enjolras. She looks back at the boy. "You're welcome..."

"Marius," he smiles. She can tell he's trying to soften her anger and he is sweet so she gives in.

"Clara. Have a good night," she gives one last glare to Enjolras before heading to the stairs

"Leave it to Enjolras to scare off the prettiest girl in the place," Courfeyrac sighs as Clara marches down the steps.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His nostrils flare as he clenches his jaw. “You are the most impossible woman!"
> 
> "You’re the most impossible man!" she snaps back.
> 
> His eyes roll to the heavens asking for some assistance or at the very least some patience with this woman. “Do you have to have the last word in everything?"
> 
> "Do you?" the fire in her eyes holds his gaze. What Clara lacks in height, she makes up for tenfold in ferocity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback you leave will be much appreciated and please check out the clajolras tumblr!

 

To Musichetta and Francoise's amusement, Clara is requested to serve the Les Amis the next night. Clara's quite sure Courfeyrac has something to with it. To avoid another fight, Clara ignores Enjolras completely. Well, not  _completely_. When serving him, she places the mug just above his parchment and nudges the table, so that the red liquid splashes on the page. His head snaps up, but she scampers off before he can say a word. He tells Marius to inform the barkeep that he does not drink wine, so he should just bring nine mugs. 

The following evening, Clara brings ten and gives the extra to Grantaire who is quite thankful. She can tell he enjoys riling up Enjolras' stoic nature and figures another drink wouldn't hurt. Enjolras shoots daggers at her from across the room. She responds with a cheeky, dimpled grin, before swiftly turning on her heel and marching down the stairs. The Les Amis find it ironic that the first woman Enjolras actually notices, besides Patria, loathes him entirely. He would have that kind of luck. He shrugs it off, saying the feeling is mutual. 

Grantaire takes a swig of his wine and smiles. "I wonder who he hates more tonight, the king or Clara?"

Enjolras does not reply because at the moment, he truly doesn't know. He cannot stand Clara Oswin Oswald.

Two weeks left until June and it's so humid that when it rains, it only seems to make the heat wet and sticky. Enjolras is moving through the richest section of Paris, where the beggars are ignored the most, when he sees her. She looks completely different. Her long brown hair is pinned above her head in a tight bun. Instead of her usual red dress she wears at the Musain, this one is green and shiny with a much higher neckline. When he lived at home, his mother constantly bickered with his father over how much those cost. A blonde boy is playing with a feathered hat and she snatches it back with a smile. His sister pulls on her dress as they pass a beggar. She stops the children and instructs them to give a few sous to the man. So, she really is a governess. He was beginning to wonder if she was just putting on airs. 

She walks past him, but doesn't see him. She's speaking French, rather immaculate French, but that's not what he finds odd. It's her voice. He's gotten used to the rough, harsh way she speaks and the fact that she seems to use "oi" and "ain't" whenever Courfeyrac makes a pass at her, which is constantly. This voice is light, crisp, and even refined. She blends in seamlessly, save for the English accent, with the children, as well as all the citizens of this particular area.  Her deception is impressive. He shakes the thought out of his head and keeps moving.

The sun is setting and Clara is forced to walk because she doesn't have enough money for a driver tonight. She hears the sound of breathing and heavy footsteps behind her, but keeps walking. She clutches her umbrella tighter.

"My, my, such a pretty little thing walking all by herself," a ginger man steps cuts in front of her.

"Lucky me," he smiles and grabs her skirt.

"No, lucky me," she growls and hits the man in the face with her umbrella.

"You'll pay for that, bitch," he spits, clutching his nose as it drips blood. 

He lunges for her and a tall blond man steps between them. His purple jacket gives him away. It's Enjolras.

"Like hell she will," his fist connects with the man's jaw. 

The man stumbles back, stunned a moment, before swiping Enjolras. He dodges the blow.

"Duck," Clara shouts.

He does as he's told and Clara hit the man's arm with her umbrella. The man catches the umbrella by the hook and she's propelled forward. He smiles and pushes her back. With a loud splash, Clara's back lands in a pile of brown muck. She grimaces, praying its mud. The horrid smell reaches her nose to tell her otherwise.

"You're not worth the trouble," the man hisses as he wipes his nose.

Enjolras moves to help her up, but she swats his hand with her umbrella. He barely pulls back his hand to avoid the hit.

"No, no, no!" every word is punctuated with a shake of her hands, trying to rid herself of the filth. She pushes the stem of the umbrella into the ground to help herself up. Once she's on her feet, she rounds on him. "What the bloody hell was that? You should've just left me alone!"

Enjolras' heartbeat quickens as his face flushes. He steps back. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears. He should've know better than to expect thanks from her. "I was trying to help you!"

"Fat load of good you did. I had him! One more hit to his face and he would've ran off!" she spits.

"Right, it would've been that easy," he scoffs.

"You call fighting a man a foot taller than me easy?" she gives him a look of disbelief to match his.

Enjolras groans. He wonders if she's misunderstanding him on purpose. He wouldn't put it past her. "No! That's why I was helping you!"

She lets out a harsh laugh. "I didn't ask for your help! Thanks to your help, I'm covered in shit!"

His nostrils flare as he clenches his jaw. "You are the most impossible woman!"

"You're the most impossible man!" she snaps back.

His eyes roll to the heavens asking for some assistance or at the very least some patience with this woman. "Do you have to have the last word in everything?"

"Do you?" the fire in her eyes holds his gaze. What Clara lacks in height, she makes up for tenfold in ferocity.

Enjolras takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Clara removes her stained gloves and flings them to the ground. Her hair is all disheveled, hanging on her shoulders. Her disguise is ruined. He can't help the twinge of guilt settling in his stomach.

"I'm staying at an inn," he gestures behind him," I could take you there to get cleaned up." 

"Trust me, I don't need any more from you. You've done enough," she stomps past him and doesn't look back. Even though she refused his help, he can't help but feel some responsibility in all this.

The next day he goes to the Musain earlier than usual and sees Francoise and Musichetta talking with Clara. He doesn't have to guess to know what they're arguing about it. 

"You're lucky you got that shit off you. This dress won't be so easy," Francoise shakes her head.

"It won't be salvaged," Musichetta agrees with her sister, "not that material."

Francoise's eyes narrow. "How come you have such a nice dress anyway? I've never seen you wear it here."

Clara snatches the dress out of Muischetta's tiny hands and stomps off to the back. Enjolras walks around the building and sees her throwing the dress on the ground. She kicks it and closes her eyes, trying to hide her tears. It took her two months to save up for that dress. She knows if she tells Monsieur Touré what happened, he'd gladly buy her another, but she doesn't want to take anything from him that she doesn't earn. 

Enjolras feels guilty intruding on such a private moment, so he clears his throat to make his presence known. Clara turns her back on him and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. When she faces him, she just lifts her eyebrows.

"I wanted to give you this...for the dress," he tries hand the bills to her, but she puts her hands up.

"Word on the street is your daddy cut you off and I don't need you starvin' because of a dress on my conscience."

Enjolras presses his lips together, trying to reign the exasperation she brings out in him. "Are you always this stubborn?" 

Clara tilts her head to the side as she laughs. "Takes one to know one, angel."

She moves inside, chuckling at her own private joke, and leaves him baffled.

That night when she serves the boys their wine, she brings nine mugs and is gone before Courfeyrac can even think of a sly line to test out on her. Enjolras isn't sure if that's an improvement or not.

Lamarque's health is getting worse. It makes the people even more angry and even though it adds fuel to the fire, Enjolras can't say he's pleased when the police are chasing him through the streets. He puts his hand to the stitch in his side. He should be used to this by now. He feels a tug on his shoulder and is swung behind a stone wall of an alleyway. He rounds on the stranger and sees two large familiar brown eyes. It's Clara.

Her slender fingers cover his lips, before he can even utter a word. His blue eyes widen and her brown ones glare back at him. She takes hold of his arm with her other hand and drags him further back in the alley where the sun can't reach past the tops of the houses. They're hidden in the dark. She pulls her hand away and the pressure left from her fingers tingles on his lips. He closes his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. It could've been much worse. He feels her breath tickle his neck as she squeezes past him. Her brown curls slip off her shoulder as she pokes her head around.

"It's clear."

Enjolras steps out of the alley and dusts the soot off his trousers, before looking up at her, trying to muster up the words. 

Clara laughs, giving him another dimpled grin as she pats his chest. "Consider us even for the dress."

Enjolras shakes his head as she walks away. She really is the most impossible woman he's ever met, but at the moment, he hates King Louis more.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Trying to make a habit of this?" she smirks. 
> 
> "What?" he stares at her.
> 
> "Me saving your revolutionary arse," she laughs.
> 
> "If the Inspector only knew the way you really talked," he shakes his head.
> 
> "You're welcome," she arches an eyebrow. 
> 
> He flushes. He didn't mean to be rude. "Thank you...again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave feedback and check out the clajolras tumblr!

Enjolras doesn't know how he's getting out of this one. The police are hot on his heels. He doesn't even chance looking back. He can hear the thundering of hooves coming closer. His heart is banging against his ribs. He's gonna get sick. He turns a corner, not sure where it leads and is shoved into a haystack. The hooves slow down and he hears the police asking each other where he went. He buries himself further back in the yellow hay. 

"Who's there?" a gruff voice asks. One of the Inspectors he assumes.

"Oh my goodness," says a startled voice. It's so light and refined. Clara. It's Clara using her governess accent. Her French really is immaculate.

"Afternoon, mademoiselle. May I ask what you're doing here?" asks the Inspector.

"I was trying to take a shortcut to the family I work for," she's good under pressure.

"Who?"

 "The Tourés."

"Why were you taking a shortcut?" 

"There was a rather nasty gathering outside General Lamarque's house. I didn't want it to slow me down," her lies are flawless.

Enjolras steadies his breathing as he waits to see if the police accept her story.

"Of course. I apologize for the questioning, mademoiselle. The rebellion seems to be rousing more sympathizers."

"I understand perfectly, Inspector."

The hooves click on the brick once more and the sound trails off.

"Oi! You're safe!" Clara picks the hay off of him. She offers him her hand. He takes it, surprised at how quickly she brings him to his feet. He brushes the remaining hay off his vest. He sees she has a new governess dress. Good,he feels the guilt that had settled in his stomach for a week finally dissipate. 

"Trying to make a habit of this?" she smirks. 

"What?" he stares at her.

"Me saving your revolutionary arse," she laughs.

"If the Inspector only knew the way you really talked," he shakes his head.

"You're welcome," she arches an eyebrow. 

He flushes. He didn't mean to be rude. "Thank you...again."

Clara nods and starts walking away. She's already halfway down the street, so Enjolras sprints after her.

"Wait!"

She turns. "Yes?"

She's staring at him, waiting. Suddenly, Enjolras can't remember why he stopped her. Then it comes to him. "Where'd you learn French?"

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion as she quips back, "Where'd you learn English?

Enjolras sighs. He never comes across correctly with her. "Your French...it's good...very good."

"Much better than your English," she scoffs.

He looks to the sky once more as she tries his patience, yet again. When she starts speaking, his gaze snaps back down.

"My mum. She was a governess before she married my dad. She taught me," Clara heaves a sigh and looks down for a moment. "She died. Factory accident. My dad got sick. Fever. Joined her soon after."

Enjolras has never seen her so vulnerable. He thought she was just a fussy little harpy in a red dress. Well, maybe harpy was a bit harsh. Turns out, she's a real person after all. "And that's why you're in France?"

Clara nods, swallowing hard. "John needed my help and he's the only family I've got left."

Enjolras admires her loyalty, but doesn't say it. "I learned in school."

Clara stares at him, eyebrows raised. 

"My English. You asked. My professors clearly weren't as talented as your mother."

Clara gives him a full smile for the first time. "Thanks."

She starts walking again and he slides in step right beside her. It takes him a minute or two to adjust his speed, remembering that he's almost a foot taller than her with longer strides.

"So the accents," he says once they're close to the Musain,"why do you switch? It's impressive, but I don't understand the reasoning behind it."

Clara shakes her head. "'Cause, I would never get a job with the Tourés if they didn't think I was every bit the upper crust they are."

Enjolras stands still. "You don't have to do that."

Clara looks over her shoulder at him. "I  _shouldn't_ , but there really isn't a choice."

He tilts his head, waiting for her to continue. She turns fully, facing him.

"So in your new society--" 

"Republic." 

Her eyes widen as she shoots him a glare for correcting her. " _Republic_. What about the women?" 

"I don't understand. What about them?" he can tell she's wanting something specific.

"I told you, I have to lie because I don't have a choice. Say a woman has a child, but no husband. He abandons her. She can get a job at a factory if she lies, but if she's found out, she'll be thrown into the streets. How is she gonna feed her child? She can sell her hair and her body, but she'll lose her soul in the process. She'll be broken. I'd rather lie them than let the world break me. Women have no rights," Clara explains.

Enjolras is stunned by her words. He had seen the prostitutes in the darker parts of the city. He assumed they sold their bodies because of poverty, but had never gone so far as to think it was a problem due to lack of representation. It made perfect sense. He didn't know why he didn't think of that.

"You ever read Mary Wollstonecraft?" she asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"No," he answers honestly.

Clara puts her hand her chest and gives him the condescending smile he's used to. "She lived in France during your glorious revolution. You think you know something about equality and you've never read  _The Vindication of the Rights of Woman_? Check your library, school boy, then talk to me. You know where I work."

She turns on her heel and disappears into the inn he didn't know she was staying at. He shakes his head and continues back to the Musain.

\---

Enjolras practically sprints over to the Musain after spending the day in the university library. 

"Wollstonecraft's remarkable," he rushes up to Clara as she's wiping down a table.

Clara grins up at him. "Told you."

"Her argument for women's education is rather seamless. She completely deconstructs Rousseau's views on women. Everyone must be equal. She's exactly what we're fighting for," Enjolras can't contain his excitement.

Clara laughs, tossing the towel over her shoulder. "Look at you, all riled up."

"Thank you, truly, for the recommendation. How did you know about her?"

Clara's taken aback by the intensity of his gaze. She's seen it in his speeches, but up close, it's even more disarming. She loses her train of thought for a moment, staring up at those wide blue eyes.

"Er..." She blinks. "My mum. She saved up her money for weeks to buy a copy of the manifesto. Then she read it to me when she thought I could understand,"her lips curl into a smile when she thinks of her mum sitting her by the fire, telling her she was going to be so much more than a man's wife.

Enjolras smiles. "Your mother was a remarkable woman."

"Yeah," Clara nods," she was."

He gestures to the door. "I have to get ready, but you should come."

Clara's eyes narrow in curiosity. "All right."

He nods, before running out of the Musain. She laughs, shaking her head at his enthusiasm.

\---

Clara wedges her way through the crowd. She blends in, still wearing in red barmaid dress. 

Enjolras plays on the crowd's anger over Lamarque's ever declining health, before launching into a bit she hasn't heard before. He directly addresses the women in the crowd, telling them that society has kept them in an eternal state of childhood by not allowing them to be educated. Under the guise of innocence, they have been kept weak. Education is absolutely necessary, so that they never need even think of selling their bodies to feed their children. A knot rises in Clara's throat and Enjolras catches her eye, giving her a nod. 

The group disbands early before the police can chase them off. Enjolras calls her name and she stops.

"I'm glad you came," he tells her.

"I'm glad you listened," she chuckles.

"May I walk back with you to the Musain?"

"Yeah, all right," Clara nods. 

As they walk, they discuss the response his speech got from the crowd. Some of the men didn't seem very enthusiastic, but Clara tells him that the women were. Enjolras is very pleased.

\---

"There he is, our fearless leader," Marius smiles when Enjolras walks in.

"Your argument on women's education sounded very Wollstonecraft, Enjolras," Combeferre comments.

"That's because it was," Enjolras scratches his brow.

"Where did you get that?" Jehan asks.

"From Clara, " he gestures to her. She's hanging in the doorway.

There's an unanimous sound of surprise from Les Amis.

"Hello, boys," she smiles.

"Have you two finally buried the hatchet?" Marius asks.

"Depends on how nice he is to me tonight," Clara says with a smirk. She's always liked Marius.

"Glad to have you, Clara," Courfeyrac slings his arm around her.

"Oh, I'm sure you are, Courfeyrac. Now, hands off while I get you lot your drinks," she throws his arm off and goes down the stairs.

\---

A few days later, Enjolras keeps scratching out his words on the parchment. He rubs the bridge of his nose. He can't seem to find the words he wants. He looks up. Clara hasn't come up with their drinks yet. She's usually here by now. He wonders if she's run into trouble and feels a pang of worry in his stomach, until he remembers how well she used that umbrella. He hears light footsteps and she comes in the door, tray in hand. 

"You're thinking very hard over here," she teases, standing over him.

"Not hard enough," he points to the scratches.

"I have a really helpful trick. It's called breathing," she takes a deep breath.

"Really?" he laughs.

"You should try it," she gives him another full smile. He thinks he likes that smile best as she walks away.

Grantaire takes a swig of his mug and looks at Enjolras' parchment. "Not your best work, Apollo."

Enjolras rolls his eyes at him as his only reply. Grantaire never has anything useful to add, why should today be any different?

"Perhaps our favorite barmaid has given your mind more to think about than women's education," he smirks and goes back to his seat.

Enjolras looks down, trying to shake the thought out of his head. He rubs a thumb over his eyebrow. She can't be it, can she? She's just Clara. Always smirking, intelligent but equally infuriating, funny, impossible, never willing to give him the benefit of the doubt Clara. The only woman that caused enough of a fuss for him to notice. No. His blue eyes flicker back over to his parchment. No. He rushes down the stairs and hangs by the wall. He watches Clara serving other customers. She gives them a dimpled smirk as they chat with her. She throws her head back, laughing. He's never heard her laugh like that. It's almost like music. No. His heart begins pounding against his ribs and suddenly, there's no air in the Musain. He runs outside and breathes deeply, hands on his thighs. He closes his eyes, trying to steady himself.

"Oi!"

His eyes snap open.

"You all right?" Clara's voice makes him freeze.

She steps in front of him, studying him with her large brown eyes. "You look...sick."

Her small hand reaches for his shoulder, but he jumps back with his hands out. "No! Don't!"

Clara's eyes widen. "What's wrong with you?"

"You!" he throws his hands in the air.

"Excuse me?" the blood starts pounding in her ears.

"Why couldn't you just leave me alone?" he snaps.

"Fine!  I'll go back inside," she scoffs. She doesn't have to take this from him.

"That's not what I mean!" he groans.

"Care to share?"she grits her teeth.

"You are impossible! You couldn't just be this frustrating, snappy little barmaid! No! You...This is exactly why I didn't want women at the meetings!" he's pacing back and forth now.

"You're speaking English, but you're not making any sense. Not your best," maybe he had been poisoned. That would make more sense than this nonsense.

"Oh and the wit. It used to be so annoying. I could handle it then, but now..."

"Enjolras, what the bloody hell are you going on about?" he's making her dizzy.

He stands still and takes a deep breathe, before looking at her. "You, Clara. You. You're....a distraction."

"I'm a distraction?" she arches an eyebrow.

"Yes! You had to make me...Mary Wollstonecraft and those stories about your mother," he flings his hand back at the Musain,"I was trying to write and I couldn't. Because of you! I was thinking about you! Why you weren't here yet! I was worried. And then you came and--this isn't supposed to happen! Not to me!" Enjolras growls. The anger is rushing through his veins.  I'm planning a revolution. I'm creating a new republic and I cannot be distracted."

Clara's mouth falls open. "How dare you! You know I thought you were..." she doesn't want to say it now. She blinks back the tears burning in her eyes. "It's true what they say about you. You really are made of marble. I don't know how else you could be so cruel. For all your charms and eloquent speech, you can be absolutely terrible!"

She smacks him across the face and he stumbles back. She rushes back into the Musain before he can utter a world. He clutches his stinging cheek and closes his eyes.

\---

"No," Clara throws her grey apron on the table," Musichetta, you go and serve your boyfriends. I've waited three hours for your sister to show up and I'm done for the night!"

"Clara!" Uncle John reaches out, but she brushes him away. She needs to get out of here.

"Clara!" Musichetta calls after her. "Please, come back!"

She hates lashing out at them, but she is angry with Francoise and she will not face Enjolras. Not after what he said. 

"Clara!" her uncle's voice reaches Enjolras' ears. He looks out the window and sees Clara running away in pouring rain. He gets up immediately and thunders down the stairs.

"Clara!" he's bolting after her.

Clara only runs faster when she hears his voice. "Piss off, Enjolras!" There is no way she's talking to him. The rain soaks her dress, but she doesn't care. She's not stopping. Maybe he'll get sick, bed ridden for a week and find how distracting that is. 

Enjolras sighs, knowing he deserved that. "Please," he runs in front of her.

"Get away from me!" she steps back from him.

"Just, please--"

"No! I thought I was distracting! I was ruining your revolution! Just get away from me! I'll smack you again, I swear!" she snaps. She hates how horrible he made her feel. All because he was stupid bloody French idiot. She's too upset to come up with a proper insult.

Enjolras puts his hands out. "Clara..."

She stops, but doesn't look at him. She'd rather stare at the mud.

"I don't want to be terrible, especially to you. I'm so sorry. I'm not used to...we were getting along so well. You had every right to smack me and I'm glad you did because it made me realize how awful I was," he tries his best to find her gaze.

Clara finally looks up at him. "Good," she puts her hands on her hips. 

She takes a deep breath and watches as the rain trickles down his face. He doesn't look so angelic now. He looks human. Just a boy, really. A boy standing and waiting for her to say something.

"Why does it have to be me or the revolution?"

Enjolras stares at her and wipes his wet hair away from his face. "I don't..."

"Why can't you have both? You think I'm clever, right?" she doesn't even know why she's trying, but she can't help it.

"You're the smartest woman I've ever met," he says without hesitation. 

"Okay, so..."Clara steps closer, hoping he'll see her point.

"Clara..."he looks down at her. He really hopes she isn't going to smack him again because this time he doesn't know if he did anything worthy of it. 

"Bloody hell, if you won't do it," Clara grabs his face, yanking him down and kisses him. Enjolras doesn't know what to do. Her lips are pressing against his, but before he can even think of what to do, she pulls back. She steps back and looks up at him, waiting.

He's stunned. It takes him a minute to gather his thoughts. "I've never done that before."

""I can tell,"Clara laughs, "want another go?"

"Yes," he breathes, closing the distance between them. He puts his hand on the small of her back, guiding her up to him. She helps him by cupping his face and their lips meet again. It's still clumsy, but she doesn't mind. He touches her shoulder because he honestly doesn't know what to do with his other hand. Her lips respond to hers and for once in his life, he finally gets what the whole fuss is about. She breaks it slowly, placing her hands on his shoulders.

"You didn't have to stop," his lips are still tingling.

"We have to breathe," she chuckles.

"Right. So. How was that?" he's afraid to ask and feels the heat rise to his cheeks.

"Better," she nods. "There's a lot of room for improvement."

He brushes away the wet curls that are clinging to her face. Her skin is smooth. "I'm an excellent student," he smiles, before covering her mouth with his. 

The rain pounds down on their backs as they embrace, not a barmaid playing governess or a schoolboy playing revolutionary, but just a young man and a young woman sharing a kiss in the rain.


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Maybe we shouldn't go in together," Enjolras hesitates as they reach the door.
> 
> "One of the benefits of living in the cheaper parts of town is that your landlady doesn't ask when you bring young men into your room," Clara smiles.
> 
> Enjolras feels his neck getting warm and he's sure his cheeks are pink at what she's implying. 
> 
> "Don't give me that look. It's not a habit of mine," she scoffs and he follows her up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave feedback and check out our clajolras tumblr!

"We should get out of the rain," Enjolras whispers against her lips. Clara nods. The rain is warm, but they shouldn't stay out here. 

"I can't go back to the Musain, not yet. I was..." Clara shouldn't have yelled at Uncle John and Musichetta.

Enjolras shakes his head. "You were upset because of me. The fault is mine."

"The inn I stay at, it's not far from here. We could go there until the rain stops. Unless you couldn't possibly leave your meeting," Clara gives him a challenging look.

"Until the rain stops," Enjorlas concedes. He knows Les Amis will wonder where he ran off to, but he doesn't want to leave Clara. Maybe she's right. Maybe he can have both. She's no ordinary woman after all.

"Maybe we shouldn't go in together," Enjolras hesitates as they reach the door.

"One of the benefits of living in the cheaper parts of town is that your landlady doesn't ask when you bring young men into your room," Clara smiles.

Enjolras feels his neck getting warm and he's sure his cheeks are pink at what she's implying. 

"Don't give me that look. It's not a habit of mine," she scoffs and he follows her up the stairs.

She walks in first and lights a few candles. His eyes adjust to the light as they scan the room. The room is modest. There's a bed, two chairs, a table near the window, and a bag by the bed. He recognizes the blue dress tossed on the chair. She picks it up and places it on the bed.

"I thought your uncle lived with Musichetta and her sister," Enjolras asks after she gestures to the chair.

"He does," she licks her lips as she sits down," none of them know I'm a governess, so I live here."

"I saw Francoise and Musichetta questioning you about the dress," he remembers.

"A secret is easier to keep when you're the only who knows," Clara wrings the water out of her hair.

"But you're not the only one," he takes her hand in his,"I know."

Clara watches him curiously as his thumb traces the lines on her palm. Her hand is so much smaller than his. Those serious blue eyes that she's seen studying parchment by candlelight every day are now studying her.

"Your skin is smooth," he says as his fingers move up her dainty wrist.

"So is yours, schoolboy," she chuckles, it tickles.

He looks up at her beautiful features illuminated by the yellow candle light. Her lips are swollen.

"Did I do that?" his thumb brushes her lower lip and she gasps. He pulls back immediately. 

Clara chuckles again. He really has never been with a woman in any capacity. 

"I'm glad you got another dress," he clears his throat.

"Monsieur Touré asked me what happened and insisted," she explains. 

"You called me angel," his brow furrows as he remembers.

"What?"

"That day when I tried to give you money for a new dress. You called me angel. Why?"

Clara smiles. "Well, look at you." Before he can say anything, she cups his cheek. He's surprised to find himself leaning into her touch. Her fingers trail along his jawline and his heartbeat quickens. 

"Clara," he sighs and opens his eyes. He takes her hand and kisses her palm, before letting go. 

She grins so wide that he sees both of her dimples. She's blushing, but tries to hide it by looking out the window. 

"It's stopped raining," she tries to hide the disappointment in her voice.

"Right," Enjolras nods and stands up.

"Right," Clara looks down at the table.

He extends his hand and her heart jumps. He pulls her to her feet. She laughs as he brushes her hair away from her neck. He looks her over once before tugging her towards the door. 

Enjolras doesn't say a word as they walk back to the Musain. Their fingers are laced together tightly. He doesn't even give her a chance to acknowledge Uncle John, Musichetta, or Francoise. They go straight upstairs ignoring the whispers behind them. 

"We were wondering if Javert had caught you at last," Combeferre comments as Enjolras walks in.

Clara ducks behind him. She's overcome with embarrassment and she doesn't know why.

"You ran out in such a hurry..."Marius loses his words when he sees..."Clara?"

Enjolras steps aside, but their hands are still woven together.

"Hello, boys," she knows she's as red as her dress.

"I was right!" Grantaire laughs. "Sorry, Courfeyrac! Looks like our fearless leader stole your girl."

Enjolras ignores them and goes back to his usual spot, dragging Clara with him. 

"You can let go," she whispers in his ear. "I won't be cross." She'd actually like to have her hand back. 

He nods, brushing her wrist with his thumb, before unlocking his fingers from hers. Clara smiles and steps back.

"You lot don't have any drinks! I'll get them!" she runs down the stairs.

When she grabs a tray, she recognizes the small hand on her wrist. 

"You and the Marble Statue?" Musichetta's eyes are wide.

"Er...yeah. Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you. I had gotten into a row with him and--"

"Don't even worry about it. You've keep taking Fran's shifts and you shouldn't have to. Besides, how can I stay cross with you? You did the impossible," she laughs.

Clara laughs with her and shakes her head. Wine. She was getting wine.

"You all right?" Uncle John pours the wine into the mugs for her.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"So you and him."

"Yeah."

"Be careful, Clara."

"You don't think I can handle myself?"

"I know, but--"

"I know. Love you for it."

"You better."

Clara takes the tray and comes back upstairs. Enjolras must have said something because Grantaire is the only one who is still snickering.

"I'll cut you off, you know," she gives him a look.

"You wouldn't dare," he matches it.

"Don't tease the barmaid," she smirks.

"Why are you with him? You know how to laugh," he smiles and takes the mug off the tray.

"I'm full of surprises," Clara winks.

As May comes to an end, it isn't exactly smooth sailing finding their rhythm as a couple, but Clara's never been one to let herself be forgotten. She doesn't have a military mind, but she helps Enjolras with his speeches. She surprises Les Amis because she always manages to see a little detail they had never thought of. She helps when she can, but she still has two jobs of her own. 

When Les Amis have all left the Musain, Enjolras stays to watch her clean up. He tried helping, but she only swatted his hands away, so now he stays put. She's chipping candle wax off the table with a dull knife when he comes up behind her. She sets the knife back down on the table and waits for him to make his move. He doesn't. So, she takes his wrists and secures his arms around her waist. That is all he needed. Instantly, he leans into her and buries his nose in her hair, inhaling her smell. He's tender. She didn't think he would be, definitely not at first glance, but he is. 

"I saw you with those children today," he tells her," giving money to a beggar."

"I told them God made them fortunate, so that they could share their wealth to help those who have none," she presses her back into his chest.

"I wish the world was more like you, Clara," Enjolras holds her tighter.

"Then it wouldn't need you to change it and I can't even imagine that," Clara sighs.

Enjolras spins her around to face him. He cups her face as his lips come crashing down on hers. She responds to his kiss so hard that his mouth opens. Her tongue slides in between his lips and brushes his own. He jumps, startled, and breaks the kiss.

"Clara..."

She smiles up at him. "I've heard Musichetta talking about it with Francoise. Thought I'd try it."

"You could've...given me warning," Enjolras isn't used to being caught off guard, which is something she's always doing to him. 

Clara inches her face closer to his, "I'm giving you warning."

Enjolras laughs. "You really are impossible."

"So are you, love," she winks and covers his mouth with hers. 

Her tongue sweeps over his lower lip, asking for entrance this time. He opens his mouth and gasps as her tongue melts with his. Her fingers trace his jawline as her other hand dances down his arm. His hands join together at the small of her back, pushing her body up against his. Their heartbeats quicken as their bodies tingle with delight. Clara moans into his mouth and the sound only makes him respond to her kiss more passionately.

Musichetta lets out a yelp of surprise at the sight of them and they break apart instantly.

"Sorry, didn't know anyone was still up here," she chuckles and walks back down the stairs.

"We're gonna hear about this tomorrow, right?" Clara rests her head against his.

"I wouldn't doubt it," Enjolras sighs.

\---

Clara's wiping up some wine that Marius absentmindedly knocked over. Enjolras is trying to tell Les Amis how close their day of revolution is, but Marius isn't listening. She's never seen him so distracted. Grantaire gives Clara a look and she arches an eyebrow. Joly questions him and Marius mentions a "she". That's the spark Grantaire needs before he starts teasing both Marius and Enjolras since Marius is so enraptured by a different lady than Patria. Les Amis believe Clara deserves some sort of award and refer to her as Enjolras' other woman in jest. They don't know how she puts up with him. Clara rolls her eyes as Enjolras gives Marius a lecture on his priorities.  Marius describes this mystery woman and Clara can't help but be moved. Marius worships her and he hasn't even spoken to her. It's naive, but beautifully romantic. Clara goes downstairs after collecting the mugs. 

When she returns, Gavroche, the little boy whom Les Amis seem to have adopted is at the top of the stairs. Marius told her that he thinks she's too pretty to talk to, so that's why he doesn't. She thinks that's sweet. However, his news takes on a different tone entirely. General Lamarque is dead. She looks at Enjolras, but she can see the gears are already turning inside his head. He's in his own world now. There's fire glowing in his blue eyes as he speaks. She can only watch in awe as he rallies Les Amis together. He's Henry V giving his St. Crispin's Day speech. Absolutely captivating. Her warrior angel is ready to attack. The passion seeps from his very soul and touches everyone in the room. 

She helps clear off the tables as they bring in guns, silver for melding into bullets, and even more candlesticks. They'll be here all night. Enjolras is speeding around the Musain making sure everything is ready. A feeling of great dread washes over her so strong it almost knocks her over.  _O, God, I have an ill-diving soul. Methinks I see thee now, thou art so low as one dead in the bottom of a tomb_.  Her heart falls to her stomach. She rushes over to him. He doesn't see her.

"Enjolras," her hand grips his wrist.

"Clara, what is it?" he can't read her face. 

"Come with me."

"Come with you? I have--"

"Please, one hour, that's all I ask.They have Combeferre. He knows your plans backwards and forwards, please."

Enjolras has never seen her beg for anything. Not in these past three weeks. He nods and follows her out of the Musain.

Clara brings him back to her room at the inn. She props the chair against the door knob, before kissing him. She's never been so restless. She peppers his face and neck with such fierce kisses that he barely knows how to respond. What's happening to her? Her hands run down his chest and he knows what she wants. Enjolras pulls back.

"Clara, we can't. Tomorrow--"

"We've got nothing to lose. Wouldn't you rather have one night together before we go off to the barricade than have nothing at all?"

Enjolras stares down at her.  _We_. She has no intention of leaving him. 

His mouth devours hers. It's clumsy. They don't know what they're doing. Impatient hands grasping and pulling at clothes before stumbling onto her bed. Clara opens her legs as she settles under him. She tries to hide the wince that escapes her lips as she feels him. 

"You okay?" he asks. He heard it. 

"It...hurts," Clara flushes. 

Enjolras pulls back. He never listens to the conversations Les Amis have about how to please a woman. Now he wishes he had. He looks down at her, eyes scanning her body. She's so beautiful. He wishes he had more time, wanting to know what every inch of her feels like against his lips. His large hand trembles slightly as it moves down her neck. She encourages him with a sigh. Her skin is so soft. He brushes the smooth skin of her breast with his thumb and she bites her lip. His fingers walk down her stomach, pausing just above her navel. 

His blue eyes find brown ones. Clara gives him a nod. Her breathing hitches as his long fingers dip between her thighs. He's exploring, not knowing how to do this, but he's a smart man. He can figure it out. His palm rubs against her and her hips buck. Clara's never known anything like this. Her heart is racing. She gasps when she feels his fingers inside her. She's moving with the rhythm he's created and she doesn't want it to stop. Her skin prickles and tingles all over as her lips move against his. She's bursting at the seams. It's too much. It's too much. Her chest tightens and she's sure he can hear her heartbeat. She moans wantonly as she writhes under him. She's clutching onto his back, crying out his name as an unfathomable pleasure washes over her. She's panting heavily. 

"More," she sighs.

Enjolras smiles. He kisses her and she feels him inside her again. Clara moans, it feels so much better now. They start off slow, trying to match each other. He buries his face in her breasts and wraps his hand around her ankle, bringing her leg over his hip. Clara clutches his hair as he fills her completely. The rhythm is perfect now. His groans ring in her ears and her moans sound like a symphony.  She feels it again, the prickling, tingling sensation at the base of her spine. The building pressure of her heart beating faster and faster. Their eyes meet. Not yet. Not yet. This time, they'll reach it together. His fingers dig into her hip as he raises her leg higher up his back. Enjolras can't catch his breathe. Sweat breaks in sheets down his back. This can't be real. It's too perfect. Her skin rubs against his as they move faster, harder. No, it's too much. They have to jump together. He groans loudly matching her cry echoing off the thin walls. Their bodies tremble, drowning in wave after wave of impossible ecstasy. 

They lay in a tangled heap, breathless. He kisses the valley between her breasts. She sighs when he pulls back. Enjolras wraps an arm around her waist and Clara rests her head on his chest.

The summer heat drifts in through the window and their eyes struggle to stay open. 

\---

Clara breathes in deeply as she opens her eyes. Her hand stretches out next to her, but finds only sheets. She struggles to get into her dress and runs to the door. It's locked. She scans the room. One of the chairs is missing.

"Enjolras?"

"Clara."

She jumps at the sound of his voice. He's on the other side. Enjolras secures the chair against the door. This is the price he's willing to pay. He's never questioned dying for his cause. He'll sacrifice what they could've had for the revolution, but he won't let it have Clara. Not Clara.

"What the bloody hell is this?" Clara yells. She pounds her hand against the door and rattles the doorknob.

Enjolras chuckles dryly. 'My God, you British women really are extremely loud." 

Clara grits her teeth. "At least I'm not French!"

He shakes his head as a sad smile grows on his face. She looked so beautiful, so peaceful just lying in his arms. 

Her hand stills. He reaches up, brushing his hand against the door. Neither could possibly know it, but if the door was to dissolve, their hands would touch.

Clara's face falls as the tears gather in her eyes. "You're not going to let me out, are you?" 

Enjolras sighs, blinking back his own. "You know I have to do this." 

Her lip trembles as the tears fall. "I know, it's what I like about you."

He can hear it in her voice, she's crying. He never wanted to make her cry. "I'm not letting you die for me, Clara. Take my place. Change the world." 

She lets out a shaky breath. "I will."

Enjolras closes his eyes, seeing her sleeping in his arms. She was right to have them do this. They deserved a goodbye.

"Enjolras, I--"

He won't let her say it. It'll haunt her. "I know." He sighs and rests his head against the door.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this..."

Clara presses her lips together, trying to steady herself. "Maybe, in another life, I suppose."

His hand brushes the door before Enjolras pulls back. "I'll be waiting."

\---

Clara wakes to the sound of yelling and gunfire. Her eyes snap open. She gets to her feet and pounds against the door. She can't get it open. There's too much chaos. No one can hear her. She has to get out of here. She runs to the window. She's not that high up. She swings her leg over the sill and scales her way down into the crazed street. She runs in the direction of the Musain, but she slams right into someone.

"Clara?"

She looks up. "Uncle John?"

"Clara, come with me. The streets aren't safe," he takes her hand. He drags her farther from the Musain to a little house. 

"I found her. She's okay," he announces in the doorway.

Musichetta wraps her arms around Clara. "Thank God. We didn't know what happened to you. Francoise was thinking the worst."

 "Enjolras locked me into my room at the inn. I have to go. I have to--I--"

"Clara," she shakes her head," you can't."

"No, I can't leave--" Clara breaks down in Musichetta's arms. 

\---

Uncle John informs them that he's heard rumors that the police will attack the barricades at dawn. Clara gets up, but he blocks the door.

"Uncle John, please."

"You'd never make it. They'd shoot you for trying."

"But I have to try!"

"Clara, you're the only family I've got left," he places his hands on her shoulders. 

Clara covers her mouth as the tears fall down her cheeks. Grief engulfs her as she sobs. Musichetta begins to cry and the women hold one another, but there's no use. There's no comfort for the loss of their men.

On June 6th, the barricade is broken down. The second Uncle John tells her the news, Clara's running to the Musain. Blood runs through the streets and she follows it. She sees Inspector Javert and can't help but think of the time she distracted him from finding Enjolras in that stack of hay. 

Her eyes fall on the Musain and her heart stops. There he is, her golden haired angel suspended in the window holding onto his red flag. Tears burn in her eyes. He's still so beautiful, so majestic even in death. 

Javert catches her eye and she wants to hit him. She wants to demand who did it. She wants to know who ended her revolutionary's life, but she can't. She can't strike a police officer, let alone an inspector, so she shakes silently in her rage. He gives her the slightest of nods, before going back to surveying the carnage. She watches as he places a medal on Gavroche's little body. She closes her eyes and lets the tears fall. No one helped. They were supposed to rise, but they were cowards. They should be ashamed.

Clara looks over her shoulder, before walking towards Enjolras' body. She knows she can't touch him. Blood and dirt taint his angelic face, but it's still his. She wants to scream, at the soldiers, at the citizens who closed their doors, and at Enjolras. Why? She wanted to die next to him. She was ready. Why did he take that from her? Because he loved her.

She sighs heavily as fresh tears sting her eyes. "You'll be waiting."

The next morning, Clara sees the women in the streets scrubbing the blood off the stone. She listens to them lament the loss. How would they know? They don't even know their names. They weren't boys. Their bodies were young, but their souls were old. They were strong, brilliant men. They wanted to change the world, but their idealism was repaid with bullets. She bring herself to help. It's too much. She won't touch his blood.

A few months later, Clara attends Marius' wedding to his mystery goddess, Cosette. She's so happy that he survived. It's the only reason she stuck around. Les Amis meant so much to her even if she had known them for a short while. If she lost them all, it wouldn't been unbearable. After the ceremony, she says her goodbyes. Marius squeezes her shoulder. "Thank you, Clara. I know it wasn't easy coming."

"I wish you all the happiness in the world, Marius," she smiles.

"Take care of yourself."

"You too."

Uncle John meets her in the carriage. Musichetta scorned Francoise when she found out the reason she was late all the time was because she was seeing someone else. John deserved better.

"C'mon, Clara. There's nothing left for us here. Let's go home."

Clara looks out the window as they pass Lamarque's house. It had only been a summer, but it felt like another lifetime. She shakes her head, trying to rid her mind of the ghosts that now linger there. There's no going back.

In London, Uncle John goes back to his plans to be architect. Clara works as a governess, but the family isn't as upper class as the Tourés. She's done with disgustingly rich. Other children need education too. After playing with one of the poorer children near the church, the daughter contracts cholera. It spreads through the entire house. As hard as she tries to fight it, Clara can't. Uncle John blots a towel on Clara's ashen forehead as she calls for her fallen angel. She dies a few days before Christmas.


	5. Part Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out our clajolras tumblr and leave feedback!

60 years later...

Clara Oswin Oswald is in Victorian London and it's almost Christmas. She's a governess and a barmaid. Her life changes when she meets a strange man called the Doctor. He's young and old at the same time and really knows how to sulk. She finds that the world is full of impossible things: snow that remembers, an invisible staircase, a blue box that's smaller on the outside sitting on top of a cloud, and an evil governess made of ice that wants to hurt the children she cares for so deeply. The Doctor comes to their rescue and she doesn't listen when he tells her to stay put. He blushes when she kisses him and he provides an umbrella because she couldn't reach the ladder to his cloud. His ship is beautiful. He gives her a key and she knows her real life is about to start, but before it does, the icy governess drags her out of his beautiful ship and she's falling through the air, before landing on the snow with a sickening thud.

Everything goes dark, but then she feels a thumb breezing over her forehead. She opens her eyes and sees the Doctor. She knows she's going to die, they all know it, but he tells her she won't. She wants to believe him. She wants to travel the stars and save worlds. He puts a key in her hand, but she can barely feel it. She can't really feel much of her body. She doesn't know how she's talking, but on a day like today, she won't question it. He looks so delighted when she agrees to travel with him. It's hard to believe he's the same cold man she met outside the Rose and Crown. He's changed. No, not changed, been brought back. He's kind, just like the green lady said he used to be. He wishes her a Merry Christmas and she wants to return it, but she's so tired. She knows the children are scared and she wants to comfort them, but she can't. Captain Latimer must do it. She's so tired. Her eyes close and sees something. No, someone. He looks like an angel, all golden curls and blue eyes. He's beautiful. He's surrounded by a firing squad of soldiers. He's about to die, but he isn't running and he doesn't look scared. Another man comes to his side. The angel raises a red flag above his head before his body is pierced with bullets. The force propels his body out of window, but his flag keeps him from falling to the ground. There he hangs, a lonely angel. A tear trickles from Clara's eye. 

Her eyes open and the angel's gone. The Doctor is standing next to her. They saved the world. She doesn't want him to go back to his cloud. She wants him to go back to saving more worlds. Her heart flutters when he tells her he won't be going back to his cloud. She wants to know why, but she can't keep her eyes open. 

"Run you, clever boy," she opens her eyes, looking at him for the last time,"and remember."

Over 100 years later...

Clara Oswin is trying to get onto the internet. She doesn't understand computers. She lifts her shoulder up, trying to keep the phone pressed to her ear, in case the help line actually decides to pick up. She spies a book stuffed between her desk and the wall. She leans over, almost falling out of her chair in the process, and grabs it. It's Angie's history book that she's been asking for for three days.

"Artie," she shakes her head, so glad that she's an only child. While balancing the phone on her shoulder, she flips through the book. It's European history, she gathers. She sees section on Paris in the 1830's and something called the June Rebellion or Paris Uprising of 1832 according to the heading. There isn't much on it, except that it was precursor to the French Revolution of 1848. The death toll wasn't high, but still, it makes her sad. Citizens who wanted to make the world better, only to be rewarded with death. She sighs and gets up, deciding Angie should probably have her book back. and maybe she'll know what's wrong with the internet.


End file.
